


Still the Same

by dizzzylu



Category: Teen Wolf (TV) RPF
Genre: Comic Con, Drinking, Established Relationship, Face-Fucking, M/M, Oral Sex, Somnophilia
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2013-08-11
Updated: 2013-08-11
Packaged: 2017-12-23 05:09:33
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 3,637
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/922378
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/dizzzylu/pseuds/dizzzylu
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Comic Con isn't the first place Tyler would've chosen for this particular reunion.</p>
            </blockquote>





	Still the Same

**Author's Note:**

  * For [kriari (kadielkrieger)](https://archiveofourown.org/users/kadielkrieger/gifts), [blue_fjords](https://archiveofourown.org/users/blue_fjords/gifts), [aquietglow](https://archiveofourown.org/users/aquietglow/gifts).



> Thanks to bottledminx for the beta. I made some changes after, so any remaining mistakes are my own!
> 
> (I'm pretty sure I tagged for everything, even tangentially, but if you think I missed anything, please let me know)

They agree to meet at the train station; Dylan wanting to spend as much time as possible with his family before the Comic Con chaos morphs into Teen Wolf filming madness, and Tyler can't argue. Instead, he spends the day cleaning up the house, making sure he has everything he needs for Comic Con. There will barely be time to breathe, let alone run out for a forgotten toothbrush or hair gel. 

Tyler wants to be at the station early, hoping for minute, maybe two, before Posey and Daniel get there. A second for himself, to look Dylan over, learn the new shape of him with his eyes if not his hands. But traffic, as usual, thwarts him, and he's striding up just as Dylan and Posey fall all over each other, laughing and groaning, arms and legs tangled together. Daniel gives Tyler a knowing eye-roll and they each grab a hand to help Posey and Dylan up, pulling them into hugs, too.

It's not the reunion Tyler had been hoping for, but it'll have to do.

On the train, it's just like old times. The four of them trading stories back and forth, about places they've seen and the things they've done. They all hang on Dylan's wild Baton Rouge stories, and pat Posey on the back in congratulations. 

Crystal and Holland show up after a while, and there's another round of hugs. This one a little more awkward, the tension between Crystal and Daniel brittle and raw. It's Dylan who breaks the ice, pulling Crystal into his lap, hugging her tight, tight. He tells her about a little shop he found, wandering the streets. A store she would love and things are... better.

Hotel check-in takes a bit; the girls are together, of course, and Posey with Seana. Max, Daniel, and Charlie paper-rock-scissors it to see who's stuck with the couch the first night, which leaves Dylan and Tyler, the odd men out, but not really. This wasn't the plan, but neither of them are complaining.

In the elevator on the way up, Holland makes the decision for them: drinks and dancing. No exceptions. Tyler doesn't argue; between the excitement from meeting the fans on the train and Dylan's contagious anxiety, Tyler feels jittery all over. A couple of shots sounds like the perfect cure.

The problem is, he'd forgotten what it was like to go out drinking with this crowd. The careless way they down shots and hang all over each other, coaxing Tyler onto the dance floor by his belt loops or the hem of his henley, his fraying sleeves. He sticks to beer after three shots, but watches Dylan do three more, the hard line of his shoulders easing after each one. 

They all get hit on, almost equally among them, but this night is just about them, and they stick together more or less like glue, migrating from table to bar to dancing and back again. Grinding and writhing together with the beat of the music. It helps, a little bit, for cover. Gives Tyler an excuse to get his hands on Dylan's waist and pull him close, to drop his head to Dylan's shoulder and breathe. Dylan, pleasantly buzzed with all his edges softened, drags his fingernails along Tyler's scalp, dips the tip of his nose into Tyler's ear. It's about as much acknowledgment as they can get away with right now, but it's enough. It's enough.

The ride back to the hotel is deafening in its silence, the complete opposite of the club. Tyler has Dylan crashed out on one shoulder and Crystal's head in his lap. It feels good, though. Better.

Somehow, they all make it to the elevator -- Max keeping an eye on Holland, Charlie helping distract Crystal from Daniel. Posey and Seana are in their own little world, as usual, while Daniel tucks himself into a corner, thumbs tapping out rapid-fire texts.

"S'weird, right?" Dylan murmurs, leaning into Tyler, waving a hand at Daniel, then Crystal.

Tyler sighs, a sad sound, and drags his knuckles over Dylan's wrist. "A little. It'll get better, though." He believes it, mostly.

"Yeah, maybe."

In the hotel room, Dylan makes for the bed closest to the window and throws himself on it, arms and legs splayed wide. He wriggles around a lot, not unlike a fish flopping around on land, rolling from side to side until his shirt pulls up, revealing a flat belly, a dark trail of hair. The grooves of his hips. Tyler can't stop staring, even after Dylan stills, panting, hands at his sides.

Indecision keeps Tyler from picking a bed long enough to hear Dylan slur, "God, I missed this," one hand absently scratching at his stomach, eyes closed.

"Yeah," Tyler says, a little rough and a lot fond. There's a million things 'this' could mean, but it doesn't matter, not really. 

It takes Dylan's jaw-cracking yawn to get Tyler moving, stripping out of his shirt, toeing out of his shoes, peeling off his jeans. He nudges Dylan's foot with a knee while reaching for his toiletries kit. "Gonna take the bathroom first."

"That'll give the room time to stop spinning," Dylan replies, fingers reaching for Tyler's thigh. There's a rush of goose bumps where skin meets skin, a fleeting touch that Tyler feels all over. He lets his empty hand drop, fingertips dragging over Dylan's knuckles. Dylan's pleased hum is warm and familiar.

Dylan's down to his boxer briefs by the time Tyler's done in the bathroom, still starfished out on the bed he mussed up, an empty water bottle next to his head. He's not asleep though, his fingers tapping out a rhythm on his hip. Tyler wonders if it's a new song for the band or maybe an earworm Dylan picked up on the train; his faint humming holds no clues.

Tyler distracts himself by turning down his bed, getting his clothes together for the next day, sending out a few texts, the gang's drunk 'we miss you' video to Linden. He's finishing up just as Dylan comes back, wide-eyed and smiling, the hair at his temples dark and damp.

It isn't-- they didn't talk about this beforehand; they weren't supposed to room together, Seana being a last minute addition, and it's not a big deal if Dylan wants a bed to himself. Tyler will deal. Even goes so far as to ease himself under the covers, facing toward the bed Dylan commandeered, so he can watch Dylan settle into bed, at least, tap out a few texts of his own, close the window curtains, check his email, pull down his blankets and shake them out.

"Don't want to forget anything," Dylan says, rounding the corner, slipping into the bed beside Tyler, so soft and easy, like they do this all the time. Like they haven't seen each other for several long, hectic months. 

He leans in for a kiss and Tyler welcomes it without even having to think about it; Dylan's mouth warm and slick, sweet and familiar. It's the perfect kiss hello, Dylan pressing in close, his hand in Tyler's hair, his nose nudging against Tyler's when they pull apart to breathe. 

Dylan smiles, eyes going a little crossed trying to look at Tyler's mouth. "Definitely missed this," he murmurs, leaning in for another kiss. This one deeper, filthier. His hand sliding down, down, nails dragging over Tyler's nape and along his spine. Tyler arches into the touch with a quiet groan and pulls Dylan closer, slotting their legs together. 

"God, I want to fuck you," Dylan gasps into Tyler's ear, clutching Tyler's head close, face tucked into Dylan's shoulder. Their hips have found a slow rolling rhythm, but they're both exhausted, and Dylan's definitely drunk. It's not going to happen tonight. Tyler's mostly okay with that.

"Sleep first," Tyler says, mouthing at Dylan's neck, the long, pale expanse of it. It's hard to keep his teeth in check, but there's three days of fans and press and parties to get through first. Now is not the time for a hickey.

Dylan whines anyway, hips twisting, hand sliding into Tyler's boxers to get a palm-full of skin. "Not gonna sleep with you doing that," he says, his nails digging into Tyler's ass.

"I'll stop," Tyler says, licking over Dylan's thudding pulse. "In a minute."

A minute turns into five before Tyler realizes he's got Dylan on his back with a wet red mark at his collar bone, just below his throat. Dylan's dragging in deep breaths, his palms skimming up and down Tyler's sides, into his hair. His hips are restless, but there's no intent there, and he has one ankle hooked around Tyler's.

"I may be drunk," Dylan says, low and rough and a little giddy, "but I think that was longer than a minute."

"Should I try again?" Tyler asks, grinning, easing his way up Dylan's body until they're face to face again, Tyler's fingers sinking into Dylan's mussed-up hair. He tugs on it to draw Dylan's head back, neck arched, but Dylan laughs and splays a hand in Tyler's face, applying firm, gentle pressure.

"Sleep!" Dylan barks, pushing at Tyler's thighs with his feet, nudging him back and back until Tyler rolls away, laughing, hand wrapped around Dylan's wrist, pinning it to his chest.

: : :

The morning light in the room is nothing Tyler is used to, so it takes him a minute to remember: the train, San Diego, hotel. Dylan. He smiles as he stretches, arms out over his head, legs reaching for-- nothing. With bleary eyes, Tyler blinks down at the length of his body to see why he can't move his legs only to find Dylan pinning them, lazily lapping at Tyler's cock.

"Dylan? What?" 

Dylan chuckles, low in his throat, and says, "If you don't remember this, then it's been _way_ too long." Tyler wants to snark back, but then Dylan's fingers are around him, his obscene mouth hot and so slick, sliding onto Tyler's dick, and Tyler can't really think at all.

For all the time they've been apart, Dylan hasn't forgotten how Tyler likes getting sucked; alternating long, slow strokes with shorter, sharper bobs of his head, a little suckling at the tip. His tongue is still as wicked as ever, too, tracing the vein along the side, seeking out the knot of nerves under the head before teasing Tyler's slit. What he can't fit in his mouth, Dylan uses his fist instead, keeping his grip tight and wet, using his spit to work up and down, slow and agonizing, until Tyler's pushing up into all that heat, his feet flat on the bed.

Dylan seems intent to drag it out, pulling off occasionally to lick at the crease of Tyler's thigh, moving lower until his nose nudges Tyler's balls. His tongue is so warm and soft, tracing the seam back and forth, then going lower, mouthing at Tyler's perineum. He hand stays on Tyler's pelvis, his palm flattened over Tyler's pubic hair, his thumb casually stroking the very base of Tyler's dick. Tyler whines at the tease of it, eyes squeezed shut, hands twisted up in the sheets while his hips up, thrusting into nothing but air when Dylan nips at the swell of Tyler's ass.

Dylan eventually makes his way back up, trailing biting kisses along Tyler's thigh while Dylan's hands slip underneath Tyler's legs to hook over them and pull himself closer, until his mouth hovers over Tyler's cock, close enough for Tyler to feel each excruciatingly hot exhale. Tyler holds his breath, waiting, waiting. 

In the silence, where he feels aware of everything, including the rattling a/c unit in the next room, Tyler registers a sort of swaying motion, almost like he's on a boat, but a boat that's in a pool or a mostly calm pond. It doesn't make sense, in context, until he opens his eyes and glances down his body, to see Dylan's dark knowing eyes and pink wet mouth, his hips rocking into the bed. Dylan arches an eyebrow at him and, without looking away from Tyler, sinks all the way down to the base of his dick. The soft fluttering of Dylan's throat around Tyler's leaking tip has him throwing his head back on a groan, pelvis shoving up even though Dylan can't take anymore.

It doesn't take long after that, with Dylan moaning enough for the vibrations to settle in Tyler's spine. Dylan's slim fingers, wet with his own spit, teasing Tyler's rim, his other hand scratching lightly at Tyler's ribs; something that would tickle any other time, but only burrows under Tyler's skin now, an overwhelming buzz that rushes through every part of him. 

Tyler isn't quiet when he comes, his yelp loud even over his thundering pulse. He doesn't have time to warn Dylan about it, but Dylan doesn't seem to mind, using both the hot suction of his mouth and a tight fist to work Tyler through it, slowing only once Tyler's shouting fades and his hips settle. A few moments after that, Tyler has to flail at Dylan's head, his dick spent and over-sensitive, even in Dylan's careful mouth.

He wants to yank Dylan up and pull him close, lick the taste of himself out of Dylan's mouth, but his arms are weak, flopped out on the bed with the sheet still tangled around his wrists and between his fingers. Not that Dylan's in any hurry to go anywhere. He seems perfectly content to rub his stubble (what little there is) into Tyler's thigh, then alternate wet sucking kisses and sharp nips with his teeth, laving each sting with a flat tongue. Over the top of Dylan's messy hair, Tyler can see the subtle swaying of Dylan's kicked-up feet, following the rhythm of his hips, still grinding into the mattress.

Eventually, Dylan gets bored, or maybe impatient, and crawls his way up Tyler's body, his sweaty skin a delicious drag along Tyler's body, until he can straddle Tyler's chest, Dylan's cock a sticky mess and mere inches from Tyler's mouth. What catches Tyler's attention though is the blue-black bruise on Dylan's chest, at the end of his collar bone. Tyler has a fuzzy memory of putting that there and flushes.

"Yeah, that happened." Dylan says, noticing Tyler staring. He digs his thumb into it and sighs. "I was gonna wear a v-neck today, asshole." He's threatening a grin.

"Sorry," Tyler says, almost meaning it.

"Don't worry, I gave you a matching one." Dylan sketches a vague gesture at Tyler's legs. "Only I managed to keep it where the fangirls won't see it."

Tyler rolls his eyes. "You're so kind."

Dylan shrugs. "I'm a giver." His dick bobs with the movement, smearing precome in the hair on his belly.

"I suppose you want me to do something about that," Tyler says, jerking his chin up, hands finding their way to Dylan's waist. It's narrower, now, from Maze Runner boot camp, Dylan's hip bones sharp under Tyler's palms, and there's a pale tracery of scars on one side, the tell-tale sign of a stunt gone bad. Nothing life-threatening, or Tyler would've heard about it, through Posey if not from Dylan himself. Tyler thumbs over it, skimming over the lines with his nail.

"Well, it's only polite," Dylan replies with a self-satisfied grin. He wraps a hand around the base and gives himself a few lazy tugs, enough to coax a bead of precome from the slit. He inches closer, knees nudging into Tyler's armpits, and leans forward, enough for Tyler to lick at the tip, if he wanted. He does, and Dylan sighs, his eyes turning dark.

The position is all wrong for what Dylan wants, though, and he doesn't even have the courtesy to give Tyler some room to maneuver, riding out Tyler's clumsy shuffling with a hand on Tyler's forearm. Dylan whoops once, on a particularly rough buck, and Tyler glares at him, wiggling back and forth until he's more or less propped up by the pillows, his head high enough for him to lick along the length of Dylan's cock.

"Do you want to ride me or do you want me to suck you?" Tyler asks, one eyebrow arched.

Dylan moans. "I have to _choose_?"

"Just give me your dick," Tyler grunts. As much as he would also like both, they don't have anywhere near enough time, and the familiar salt-bitter scent of Dylan's precome is maddening. He opens his mouth and licks his lips, and Dylan is there, smacking his cock on Tyler's bottom lip.

"Such a sweet talker," Dylan says with a teasing twist to his mouth, and then he's feeding Tyler his dick, slow and careful and perfect.

In this position, Tyler can't do much, pinned by Dylan's weight, his knees snugged up in Tyler's armpits, Tyler's neck at an awkward angle. It puts Dylan in control of everything (which seems to be a theme in their relationship), but he doesn't take advantage, keeping his pace slow and easy. 

With Dylan in charge, Tyler lets himself focus on all the old feelings rushing back: how much he loves the weight of Dylan's cock in his mouth, the musky scent of him heavy in Tyler's nose. How proud he gets over Dylan's hips stuttering when Tyler drags the flat of his tongue over the head of Dylan's dick. The raw wrecked sounds Dylan makes as Tyler noses at his balls, sucks one, and then the other into his soft, warm mouth. It's almost overwhelming with Tyler's orgasm still fogging up his higher brain functions. He uses the tight stretch of his lips, his fingertips digging into Dylan's ass to ground himself.

Dylan's hand pushes through Tyler's hair a few times, each pass followed by sweet words of encouragement, of how much Dylan's missed him. Tyler wants to lean into the touch, but Dylan's hips pick up speed, then, snap forward a little harder each time, each thrust accompanied by a hot, sharp exhale.

Vaguely, Tyler registers Dylan moving, his weight lifting from Tyler's chest. The angle of his dick changes, too, so it sits heavier on Tyler's tongue, dragging in and out. It hits the side of Tyler's mouth a few times, while Dylan works out how to balance himself, and it makes Tyler's cheek puff out, makes Dylan chuckle and groan.

Their bed doesn't have a head board, but Dylan manages without; one hand palming Tyler's head, tilting it forward. He uses the other as leverage, pushing against the wall as his hips rock into Tyler's slick mouth. Each thrust in ends on a rough grunt and Tyler hums in response, his eyes stuck on Dylan's face, his kiss-bitten lips and red cheeks, the soft fluttering sweep of his lashes. 

Tyler tries to make it good, working his tongue a little, hollowing out his cheeks. It doesn't feel like much from his side, but then the timing hits just right and he gets to suckle at the tip of Dylan's dick, his bottom teeth scraping underneath the head. Dylan shudders and forces his hips forward in a sharp shove, until Tyler's nose is buried in Dylan's dark wiry hair. Above him, Dylan swears and pulls out just as suddenly, eyes flying open, dark and worried. 

"Sorry, sorry," Dylan says, petting Tyler's damp hair away from his face. 

Tyler has to swallow, twice, before he responds. "I'm good, it's okay," he says, scratchy and low. He likes how it makes Dylan's eyes go unfocused, his breath stuttery. 

Dylan thumbs at the corner of Tyler's mouth and rocks his hips forward until he dick skims over Tyler's parted lips. "You're ridiculous," he says, warm and sweet, and eases his cock back into Tyler's waiting mouth.

Tyler gets his hands on Dylan's back, low down, pinkies riding the curve of Dylan's ass, and pushes Dylan faster, harder. Tyler's face is a mess, mouth covered in spit and precome, smeared all over his chin and onto his neck, while sweat gets in his eyes and prickles at his temples, making it hard to keep his eyes open to watch Dylan's face, his furrowed eyebrows and slack, groaning mouth.

Eventually, Dylan loses his rhythm and tries to pull out before he comes, as courteous as ever, but Tyler stills him, hums deep in his throat and hollows his cheeks. There's a bit of a struggle anyway, Dylan stuttering out Tyler's name, but Tyler only looks up at him, eyes wide and clear, and swallows. Dylan isn't clueless enough to miss that cue and comes with a muffled grunt.

Dylan slumps, after, his weight doubling on Tyler's chest, his muscles going lax enough for Tyler to topple him sideways, tugging at Dylan's legs until they're slung over Tyler's chest. Once Dylan is settled, murmuring to himself and nestling into the mattress, Tyler boosts himself up. The wall is cold at his back, but Dylan's legs in his lap are warm and smooth, slim and pale. Tyler skims a palm down to Dylan's ankle while he reaches for the Kleenex with his free hand.

"Need a shower," Dylan slurs after awhile, once the sweat has cooled on his skin and in his hair. Tyler pushes a hand through it to make it stick up, and to feel the weight of Dylan's head tilting into the touch. Dylan's smile is small and sweet, the hum deep in his chest pleased.

"Breakfast, too," Tyler says around a jaw-cracking yawn.

Dylan looks up at Tyler with one eye still closed. "In a minute?" he asks, hand flailing out for their rumpled bedding. Tyler helps him find it and, with one quick twist, Dylan's cocooned in the bedspread, nestled close to Tyler's leg, smiling with his eyes shut tight.

Tyler sighs and sets the alarm.

**Author's Note:**

> I'm [dizzzylu]() on tumblr.


End file.
